


I Just Love Your Brain (Pseudo-Intellectual Voodoo Cult Princess Remix)

by Lise (thissugarcane)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Other, We Invented the Remix 2003
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-01
Updated: 2004-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thissugarcane/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin comes back-- different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Love Your Brain (Pseudo-Intellectual Voodoo Cult Princess Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Just Love Your Brain](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6238) by Kate Bolin. 



> Originally posted to [We Invented the Remix](http://www.boudicca.com/oncebitten/remix/2003/) from 2003 - original story by Kate Bolin. there are zombies, and Britney.

Britney was a bit of a dreamer.

As a child, part of her always believed in fairy tales and goblins, dragons, princesses. Part of her still did. Not the knight in shining armor, but the fantasy life of a far away kingdom. Hell, she was stuck in a fantasy life in a kingdom of celebrities, awards shows.

This was just another part of the weirdness; being at a wake in a three thousand dollar dress.

Britney always thought that wakes were supposed to be sad, and have solemn music playing. The new millenium meant that people were gathered in Justin's house, eating Justin's food, comforting Lynn -- who was one of the only people crying. She hadn't cried, herself. She didn't really know how to cry and not streak mascara along her cheeks, and since there were photographers here, she had to make sure that didn't happen.

Britney snapped at a canape, and it tasted like nothing. It seemed the more expensive food got, the less it tasted like anything, and she smiled at someone who was talking at her. Talking, talking. Justin was dead. Justin was dead.

JC was wandering around in a haze, saying every few minutes, "I can't believe he's gone," or some variation thereof. Each thing in Justin's living room had JC's greasy fingerprints all over it -- his nice marble mantlepiece was visibly marked by the human remains of JC's fingers. He was acting like a bit of a dolt, Britney thought privately, but at least he seemed to *care*. "I can't believe he's gone," he repeated.

She patted his arm, answering, "I know." She couldn't believe that three days ago, Justin was well and happy and there and now he, wasn't. It seemed unreal, impossible that something like that could happen so fast. When her grandmother died, they'd had warning, and she could see, touch, evidence of that decay. Justin was, just, there. And then not.

Britney sipped her martini. JC was staring mournfully at the hideous vase on Justin's mantle again. She tried to find something to day. "It was so sad," she finally said, and then, "we should've..." then trailed off. There wasn't anything she could finish that sentence with. They shouldn't have anything. He was just there, and then gone. like magic.

"We should've told him we loved him!" JC said, angrily. Britney jumped, almost spilling her drink all over her palm. She licked the rim of her glass. "We should've told him," JC repeated, to himself, and started to cry.

Britney had a sneaking suspicion that JC meant something more than simple love, than easy love, and he didn't have any mascara to smudge, so he could cry anyway. "Hey, hey," she murmured, putting an arm around him. "He knows we love him," she said, finally, and prayed to God that JC believed the lie.

He cried for a while, and the two of them stayed in the corner, while the wake continued to go on around them. Someone sauntered past in a dark red and blue suit, and she idly wondered who the fuck thought that was appropriate for a funeral. But then, Lynn was the only one in pure black; even Britney and Chris had something baby blue on; Chris's shirt, and her dress had baby blue flecks in it. Baby blue on black.

Customised Versace mourning ensemble, straight from Italy to her house in twenty four hours. Britney sipped her drink, careful not to get lipstick on the glass. There were photographers. She stroked JC's hair, and then he straightened up, giving her a weak smile. She was about to ask if he was hungry, when he froze, looking behind her. "Shit," he mumbled. "Justin--"

She turned around, and dropped her glass.

~*~

Britney believed in God. Britney believed in God, and His power and His love with all her heart. Because not believing made the world seem really empty. She didn't believe, however, that God hated fags, or that because she'd maybe slept with a few guys before she was married she was going to hell. Or that eating whatever on Fridays was bad.

But she believed in God. She just didn't know He worked so obviously in the world.

"You're supposed to be dead," she told the Justin-who-couldn't-be-Justin standing in the doorway, and swallowed. God's miracle, maybe. God's plan. It all felt so unreal, anyway, Justin was barely dead, maybe it was all just unreal and beyond the real world.

He mumbled, coughed, shook his head. "Hey," he finally said, voice rough.

JC's hands were shaking, she could feel them on her shoulders. "Dude, you're dead." His voice was calm and even, like maybe he'd already accepted this Justin, that Justin had done the impossible and risen again. JC was maybe more eager to accept it; Britney had to worry about her mascara, and was doing a good job. Maybe she was just a cynic.

Justin blinked. "Huh?"

"Dead," she repeated slowly. "You died three days ago." The martini had splashed on her shoes, a little; that was going to stain. Hands on her hips, then around her stomach, carefully not creasing the dress. Maybe nothing was real. "This is your wake," and she waved an arm around, indicating the laughing, talking people. Lynn had disappeared a while ago, probably to cry and mourn in peace. "You're supposed to be dead."

And supposed-to was the key word. Obviously he was walking around, and maybe it wasn't like the Bible, but obviously he was walking around after being dead, and maybe some things that are supposed-to-be just aren't. Here Justin was.

He blinked at her, tilting his head. "Was I talking to you?" he asked, frowning as if he couldn't remember. "Do I ever talk to you?"

She shrank back, stung. Maybe not a work of God. He'd probably be nicer, if it was. As he sniffed the air, she answered angrily, "just because we broke up doesn't mean that you can come back from the dead and still be rude to--" and then she realized that he was sniffing the air, completely ignoring her. Not a work of God, maybe. Ice started to form in her belly. "What?"

He poked JC. Britney smelled him, as he leaned over her, and the ice got thicker. Her belly was full of dread, now. Maybe, maybe. Weirder things have happened, after all. They were all celebrities; people would pay money just to find out what they had for breakfast. To own the remains of breakfast.

Her nails dug into her palm, and Justin tapped JC, again, frowned. JC was clinging to her, creasing the silk of her dress, like at midnight the dress would turn back into rags and it didn't matter. She had to airmail it back to Italy, in reality, so she gently brushed his hands off.

Reality. The reality was, Justin had ignored both of them, and wandered off, nose in the air, sniffing out something.

Britney stepped away from JC, and headed upstairs. Two people took her picture, and she smiled in both of them; her hands were clutched together in fright.

~*~

Justin had collected guns, for a month and a half. He must have them locked away somewhere. God, please let him have them in some stupid room for guns, like Lance. Let him be that dumb and anal-retentive that he has a wall specifically for guns in his game-room. Let him just--

She pried open the lock of the cabinet, breaking two nails. Damnit.

~*~

Justin, she knew, never loved her first.

That's how the fairy tale is supposed to go: the prince is supposed to save you and love you and you're supposed to be the most important person in the world to him. Fairy tales, however, forget to mention that the prince? He has a bunch of friends that mean more to him than his own mother, than his own life. So of course, you're fourth on the list, right under them, Lynn, and himself.

Britney had accepted that early, sadly, finally. She was willing to bet, however, that Justin was heading straight for them.

She prayed to God for no reporters to catch her with a shotgun at Justin's wake, stuck to the shadows crossing the living room. No photographers. No one noticed. JC had disappeared as well.

Supposed-to. Justin was supposed to sweep her off her feet and marry her, take her to a castle and they were supposed to live happily ever after. Britney wasn't naive, that wasn't ever happening. He wasn't supposed to come back from the dead, either, but here he was. The question was, what was he.

Britney prayed. A lot.

~*~

Chris was standing against the refrigerator as Justin came at him, and never had Britney realized more sharply, painfully, how much taller Justin was than Chris. "Get the hell away from him," she said loudly, and cocked the gun.

Shooting him was easier than it seemed; re-loading was a snap. She'd had experience with guns; privately, quietly. There were stalkers out there in the world. There were always bad things out there in the world. It wasn't good for her image, but it was protection.

Looking at Justin's face was hard. It meant that she had to accept that the thing walking around, and talking, like Justin, was real.

"You're not eating Chris," she added, and shot him again.

Chris was yelling instructions, something about the brain, or Justin's brain, or eating brains. Britney was a good shot, knew what she had to do. because sometimes the story turns into a Grimms' fairy tale, and someone gets their toe chopped off, or their neck ripped out, or turned into a werewolf or bricked up in a wall, and she shot him right in the head, getting little chunks of skull all over the counter top, without hesitation.

~*~

Britney believed in fairy tales and fantasies, used Cinderella metaphors on her albums and still thought that somewhere there was a world of fantasy, with fantastic beasts and evil and good and other-worldly things. But as a kid, she'd also read gothic horror.

The shotgun blast was almost in time with the music, and she held the barrels away from her dress afterwards, so that they wouldn't smudge it with dirt or oil. Her mascara was still perfect.

Chris and JC never talked about it, and neither did she. She suspected they thought it hadn't really happened. Britney, certainly, had no evidence of the whole event except two broken nails and a new song, which she refused to sing in front of audiences because she couldn't quite forget the way Justin's skull shattered with the impact of the bullet.


End file.
